


It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

by cheeseburgersmakemeveryhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Winchester Realizes His Feelings For Castiel, Dean's First Time, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 07:39:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7305643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheeseburgersmakemeveryhappy/pseuds/cheeseburgersmakemeveryhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I understand that many in the field of psychoanalysis believe that writing your dreams down in a journal of some kind allows you to process them later, in the light of day.”</p><p>“A dream journal, Cas?” Dean countered. “Are you… are you serious?” For some reason, to this day Dean still felt uncomfortable swearing in front of his best friend/angel of the lord. “How about instead you, me ‘n Sam sit in a circle and sing Kumbaya?”</p><p>Wherein Dean tries writing down his nightmares and ends up discovering that his dreams have a recurring theme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If it's good enough for Hemingway...

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

_Hee hee. Okay, no._

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

_What? You didn’t think I could pull Dickens out of my ass? Think I’m such an idiot that I don’t know great literature?_

“Call me Ishmael.”

_Motherfucker._

“All this happened, more or less.”

Dean sighed and pressed the backspace down hard until the virtual page in front of him lay bare, taunting him. Putting his thoughts and fears and dreams down on paper was supposed to be therapeutic. Once identified and out in the open, they could be seen for what they were instead of what Dean imagined them to be – ridiculous, unworthy, painful, hopeless. But he didn’t even know where to start.

 _This is shit_ , he thought, pushing away from his small bedroom desk. He closed Sam’s laptop a little rougher than he should have and stood, stretching his back. _I need a drink_ , he convinced himself. _Hey if it worked for Hemingway…_

Reaching out along the cold, concrete wall, Dean’s hand found the hall light switch he knew waited for him. He trudged up to the kitchen, and once there, stood staring into the refrigerator’s belly. He pushed the bologna to the left and grabbed the last bottle of Bud before plopping down on a chair next to the metal table and twisting off the cap. The first swig cooled his tongue and slipped down his throat. As he watched, a bead of condensation slowly dripped down the amber-colored bottle, reminding him of the last time he talked to Cas and the reason he was pouting in the first place.

\--------------------------------------------

He had been driving back to Lawrence from Utah through a rainstorm that had come out of nowhere, but more accurately, over the Rockies. Windshield wipers were going crazy trying to keep up with the onslaught and Dean’s real concern was hail messing up his baby’s gorgeous curves. He was alone with his thoughts, concentrating on the road and the other asshats jockeying for position in the fast lane on I-70, when suddenly he wasn’t; he heard a slight rustle of fabric and then blue eyes locked on his from the passenger seat.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Heya, Cas,” he returned, breaking the gaze with a quick smile before looking over his shoulder for the Fiat 500 he was pretty sure was about to cut him off. _Fucking idiot._ There were seven seconds of quiet, during which the only sound was the furious beating of the wipers against the glass. Dean exhaled. “What’s up?”

“Forgive me, Dean, but I sense that the nightmares have returned.”

A weaker angel might have wilted under the look Dean shot in Castiel’s direction. Cas, however, was not that angel. He tipped his head slightly to the right and raised his left eyebrow, challenging Dean to dispute him. After what seemed like an hour and a half of stony silence but was probably closer to two minutes, Dean relented. He tried to think of a way to minimize the truth behind Cas’ words and settled on a shrug.

“I understand that many in the field of psychoanalysis believe that writing your dreams down in a journal of some kind allows you to process them later, in the light of day.”

“A _dream journal_ , Cas?” Dean countered. “Are you… are you serious?” For some reason, to this day Dean still felt uncomfortable swearing in front of his best friend/angel of the lord. “How about instead you, me ‘n Sam sit in a circle and sing Kumbaya?”

Cas didn’t seem at all perturbed by Dean’s comment, merely watched the hunter evade the issue by concentrating on changing lanes while avoiding a hulking shadow of an SUV. “Consider how easy it would be to slay a paper dragon, Dean.”

Dean blinked and considered. _I put the shit that’s eating me up on paper and then tear it into little pieces. Hmm._

“Or,” Cas continued, “you could write your memoirs.”

“Like the books Chuck wrote?”

“With more insight,” Cas added, nodding. “More of what you are really thinking and feeling. No one need ever read them, Dean. This is more about you getting these things, um, out of your system.”

“My memoirs, huh?” Dean replied. “Well, that’s better than _dream journal_. Lead with memoirs first, next time,” he said with a chuckle. If the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers was anything to go by, Dean felt sure that the Impala agreed.

“How much farther will you drive this evening?”

“Couple more hours, then I’ll pull into a rest stop.”

“Would you like a traveling companion? I would be happy to stay and make sure you don’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

It was a joke – falling asleep at the wheel – delivered in Cas’ typical deadpan. Never in the years that Cas knew him had Dean fallen asleep while driving. Sam had joked that when Dean drove, he must have a guardian angel on his shoulder, because Dean had never once been in an accident that wasn’t caused by someone else being an idiot. Or a semi-truck trying to kill him. Or driven by a monster. Anyway, Dean was solid, immediately awake and sober when he slid over the Impala’s leather seats.

“Yea, Cas,” Dean answered. “Stay.”

So Cas did.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The angel hadn’t brought up the memoirs or dream journal business again, but honestly, he also hadn’t shown up for a while. _Off doing angel things_ , Dean guessed. While Cas’ absence left him feeling a little out of sorts, it did give Dean a chance to further contemplate writing down his life story without anyone hovering over him, asking questions. He had ultimately promised he would try as long as Cas did NOT, under any circumstances, tell Sam about it. Talk about nagging. Sam would want to read it, and talk about Dean’s feelings, and seriously, why?

So Dean finished the last of his beer and made his way back to his bedroom. He grabbed the laptop and sat on his bed, but instead of writing his opus, he instead decided to start up Season Two of Dexter. There was one serial killer Dean thought he could probably hang out with. He was asleep by the end of Episode Four.


	2. Alone. In Purgatory.

“I’m running through a forest. Well, I’m moving quickly through a forest, trying to keep an eye on my feet to avoid tree roots and rocks while also trying to keep an eye out for whatever flavor of death is right behind me. Benny should be here, but he’s not. Obviously, that’s got me a little freaked out too. So I’m definitely alone. In Purgatory.”

“Everything is in washed out greys, so it feels like my vision’s a little hazy. And I can’t breathe very well. I’m panting from the running, yeah, but it’s humid here. The air’s so sticky and heavy. That’s gotta be good though, right? That means there’s water somewhere. Water’s my primary objective, apart from staying alive.”

“But something’s breathing down my neck. I just know it’s like seven steps behind me. It’s gaining fast and I can hear it growling at me. It wants me dead. In my mind I know whatever the hell it is, it wants to watch me die and drink the blood from my body or suck the marrow from my bones. It wants to eat me; not just kill me, but suck the _life_ out of me. As if my blood and guts will make it stronger. And that’s scary as fuck because killing for revenge or out of anger is one thing, but killing for food makes the predator _desperate_ for the prey. Makes him much more dangerous.”

“I can hear it panting, that’s how close it is. The forest is claustrophobic, just crowding me in on all sides and whipping me in the face with branches. I’m stumbling over shit on the ground, forcing myself forward with all the energy I’ve got. And then I smell it – the unmistakable smell of water. I’m so close to that water and I’ve got to get to it. Maybe the monster behind me can’t swim. Maybe it’ll stay back. So now I’m just plowing forward, using my arms to take the brunt of the tree limbs and leaves. Then suddenly I break free and I’m at a river bank and Cas is there. He’s kneeling with his back to me, drinking a handful of water. I…I can’t believe he’s here. I’m so fucking relieved! I yell for him and he stands and turns to me. I think he starts to say my name when I feel the claws at my back tearing into me. And I know it’s too late. I’m too late. I finally got there and found him and now it doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s…it’s just awful to be that close and then to just know I’m never… Then Cas screams and I wake up.”

Dean took a deep breath and exhaled to try and calm his pounding heart and stop the adrenaline that’s turning his stomach into knots. _Fucking hate Purgatory dreams. Hate everything about them because they’re so real, so visceral. Every time I get to Cas and the water, something takes me down._

He reached for the beer bottle without needing to look and took a long pull with closed eyes. As he set the bottle back, Dean shook his head and read what he just wrote. _Yeah, that’s right._ He flexed his fingers and then started typing again.

“Thinking about it now, the hardest part of the dream is going from fear to happiness to despair so fast. So many times I’ve felt like I’ve finally gotten a handle on shit, only to have the rug yanked out from under me and everything goes to hell again. Why even bother trying, you know? Everything falls to shit. Just once I’d like to dream it the way it really happened. Yeah, it was crap and horrible, but I wasn’t alone long before I found Benny. And Cas. I _reached_ him in Purgatory. I got to him and I’ll never forget how happy and relieved I was when I got to hold him and make sure he was okay. Then it was the three of us, and we kicked some monster _ass_.”

Cool beer helped soothe the parched feeling in his mouth and loosen the tension in his shoulders. He huffed a breath and hit the save button before heading to the john and taking a piss. Sam found him in the kitchen an hour later, clanging pots and pans around in an attempt to leave it be and make some pasta for dinner.

\----------------------------

“So I thought I’d take your advice, Cas,” Dean said to his empty bedroom. He absentmindedly picked at the skin around the nail bed of his left pointer finger. “I’m guessing you’re pretty busy, but I just thought you’d enjoy knowing that I’m writing stuff down. You know, _dream journaling_ and all.”

He swallowed and leaned back against the pillows at the head of his bed, crossing denim-clad ankles and setting his interlaced fingers behind his neck. Dean allowed himself a moment to remember how Purgatory ended for him – how sick he felt when he couldn’t save Cas too. They’d finally made it to the portal and he couldn’t hang on, couldn’t pull Cas to safety. _I can’t believe he wanted to stay ‘cause he thought he deserved it. Doing penance or some shit. And I thought it was my fault the whole time. I get it, but God it hurt, walking around topside thinking that I wasn’t good enough to pull him out. That I’d never see him again. Jesus._

“Crap,” he said aloud. “Purgatory, man.” Dean took a deep breath. “I was never so glad to see you, buddy. And then I lost you. Again. Only I thought ‘This is really it.’ I wasn’t strong enough to get you out. I wasn’t…I let you down. I was like a ghost, Cas, walking and talking and hunting, but it was like I was a shell. Hollow. And then ‘poof,’ you’re back. I’ll never forget when you walked out of that motel bathroom, all suited up. I mean the scruffy beard was a good look on you, not gonna lie, but to have you back, man, looking like the badass you are… I had to restrain myself from just, I dunno, _hugging_ you. Make sure you weren’t just a figment of my imagination. That it was really you.”

The hunter shook his head, trying to erase the feeling of loss from his bones like an Etch-a-Sketch. He settled instead on a much more satisfying emotion. “You know, Cas, that was a really shitty move on your part.” _Angry. I should be angry._ “Sorry, but that’s the God’s-honest truth. I don’t know how else to say it. I thought it was _my_ fault that you were forever banished to Purgatory, fighting leviathan and all manner of crap for eternity or until something finally got you. And I don’t even know what happens to you when you get ganked, Cas! I thought that was on me! But no, it was you doing ‘you’ things for ‘you’ reasons that you never seem to wanna share with the class.”

Dean massaged his forehead with his fingers for a minute. “Don’t do that to me ever again, Cas,” he muttered into his palms. “Can’t lose you like that again.” He slid down the bed and rolled over onto his side, grabbing a pillow tightly to his chest. _Need you._


End file.
